Last Summer, West Texas – Emma Gustafson

it doesn’t rain like this in Texas. nobody 

was ready, not 

even the fields. not even 

i, collecting state lines like the 

man on the corner collecting pocket change. rain 

falls in thick sheets. we watch, dry and wistful. she has 

silver rings on every finger, glistening, such 

strength housed in their crooked reach. small 

talk. coffee, cooled, held in gnarled lovely hands. 

(in the Golden Shovel style, featuring a line from E.E. Cummings: nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands)